


Flood Warning

by Potato_Being



Series: New Vegas [3]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Diplomacy, Gen, Sharing a Meal, Thunderstorms, and the effects of imperialism, genuine discussion about governments and human rights, sharing supplies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:56:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28802433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potato_Being/pseuds/Potato_Being
Summary: Deserts don't get much rain. When it does storm though, people are advised to seek shelter on high ground, as sheltering in arroyos and other low areas makes a flash flood more a danger than the lightning.Vulpes and Marshal end up sheltering in the same house during a storm, and experience a strange truce.
Series: New Vegas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/742605
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Flood Warning

**Author's Note:**

> bet you thought you'd seen the last of me nope i just stopped writing for 2 years and then started again once my hibernation was over i guess  
> i've also forgotten how to tag my shit, i genuinely can't think of descriptors for this

Thunder. The threat of flash flooding. He reaches the long-abandoned mining town at the top of the hill, a good line of sight stretching miles in all directions. He can see the rain approaching as a white sheet, obscuring the world below. It’s a quick pull of a doorknob, only to find it swinging open easily, the light of a lantern hitting him from down the hall. This town isn’t as abandoned as he’s thought.

Stepping in slowly, machete in his hand, he says nothing, closes the door softly behind him, moves through the house towards that light, and almost trips over a coat tree laying across the floor. He turns the corner to a dilapidated kitchen, empty save that lantern flickering on the counter. The oven had just been turned off, the food on the range sizzling softly. He turns, looking down the hall to see no one, then to the doorway into the living room, now filled with dirt and a century’s worth of debris. He heads in, rightfully assuming that whoever is inside went through here first, to avoid the hall. There’s the tip of something sharp at his neck. He turns, machete swinging out and it’s blocked by the fucking coat tree--

The wielder of the thing is familiar, he met the man in Nipton. He had been staggering on his feet then, barely recognizing his own surroundings. Now he’s alive, completely aware, gaze hard, glaring with hands clenched around that _damn coat tree--_

“Ah. A polearm. You are clever.” Is what he says first, because it is a good idea. He remembers the man from further back than Nipton as well, but at that point he was dragged on a chain by someone more akin to a rabid hound than a man. His escape, and Goldorus’ return, missing an eye and more unhinged than before, had struck him as weak at the time. The slave had managed to remove an eye, but couldn’t kill his master? Now he sees it as restraint, even if misguided, given his actions now.

He’s restrained now as well. He could have killed him from behind, instead chooses to-- point a stick at him. His stance is relaxed, shoulders dropped, grip loose, but he knows that could change easily, it wouldn’t be hard.

“Did you think this far ahead, or were you going to come up with a plan on the way?” He asks. Neither move their weapons, just holding them in that strange block. He just shrugs. The downpour begins, hitting the roof in a hammering crescendo. “Really. You just… quite literally poked a sleeping coyote. You didn’t think about that? I could kill you right now because of your poor planning.”

“You aren’t, though. You’re talking.” He doesn’t say ‘you couldn’t kill me if you tried’, even if it’s in his head. It’s not helpful right now.

He smiles slightly-- it’s a smirk, the lantern light making the creases of his face deeper, the shadow under the dog head wrapped around his own that much darker. “So what is your plan, then?”

“I’m not going to gun for a fight that’ll waste both our time.” Thunder booms, rattling the windows. “And you won’t, either.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You’re a spy. In charge of Caesar’s spies--”

“Frumentarii.”

“Don’t be pedantic, Vulpes.” He pronounces the Latin easily. More than most profligates do.

“So you assume my occupation--”

“You didn’t pick a fight in Nipton, mostly. And your job isn’t to draw attention. It’s observation. Someone who can’t do that can’t be a frumentarius, especially not a high-ranked one.” His expression is too open. Not trusting, but calm, like it’s a normal conversation. The crack of lightning striking the ground somewhere nearby doesn’t garner any reaction.

“He was right, you are a clever one.” The expression shifts, eyes going hard and brow beginning to furrow around the crater in the man’s head. “How exactly did you manage to get that much information, from one meeting and extrapolation?”

“I didn’t.” Now it’s Vulpes’ turn to frown.

“Then?”

“You’re not the only tracker.” There’s a moment where he has to think through his movements, and how he could have somehow missed someone following him. “It’s not hard to follow a group of people, even if they’re being stealthy.”

“You could have been an excellent frumentarius, if that’s true.”

“There are some big obstacles. Number one being your Legion is a blight on the world.” He raises an eyebrow at that.

“I thought you weren’t wanting to pick a fight.”

“Put your weapon down.”

“Why should I?”

“If you want to spend the next few hours standing here, we can do that. I don’t want to, though.”

“Put yours down first.” He expects this to continue, this standoff. He doesn’t expect the odd little courier to step back, setting the coat tree upright. He motions to the machete. Without a word Vulpes sheaths it.

“You’re stubborn for a slave.” Vulpes stiffens, levelling an indignant stare at the man.

“I am not a slave. I have no collar around my neck, I am not beholden to a master--”

“Collars aren’t always physical.” He _turns around_ , to go turn the oven back on. Turns his back entirely on the Legion soldier. “And you’re beholden to Caesar. You follow his orders, you do what he wants on threat of punishment.”

“I serve the mighty Caesar as leader of the--”

“Take away the collars and whips, what do slaves do? They serve a master. Doesn’t matter how much power and autonomy they have, they’re still a slave.” He doesn’t grace Vulpes with even a glance as he resumes his cooking. Like it’s a simple thing. He says these foolish ideals like they’re second nature-- given his actions, Vulpes isn’t surprised that they would be.

“No wonder the Mojave is weak, with profligates like you in charge. The weak are ruled by the strong. And the Legion is strong.”

“The Legion is only as strong as the people it beats into line. You can’t control the whole Wasteland with terror and blood.” Vulpes outright laughs at that. He expects an angry look, a loud defense of fragile morality--

He gets an irritated grumble and a hand pointed at a beaten-up backpack. “Outside pocket, there’s a thing of spices and another thing of pepper. You want some?” Vulpes blinks a few times, trying to process.

“Excuse me?”

“On the outside pocket of my bag, there’s a thing of spices and another thing of pepper that I want you to hand to me, do you want any?” He says this like it's obvious.

“What… is ‘it’?”

“A thing of Salisbury steak and some prickly pear fruit.”

“Explain why you’re sharing your food--”

“It’s called basic hospitality you fucking brainwashed monster, give me the things.” He does, opening the courier’s bag and pulling out two clean, labelled jars. They have ‘spices’ and ‘cayenne’ written on them with no other words. He hands them over and watches the odd little man dump a good amount onto his pan. The rain hitting the roof grows louder.

“What’s in that spices jar?” He shrugs. “You don’t know what you’re eating.”

“I do, I know it’s safe to eat.”

“How do you not know what’s in it?”

“I didn’t ask.” The pan is set down on an old milk crate-turned-table, and Vulpes can see the food. True to his word, it’s old world meat and prickly pear fruit. The courier sits on one side of the crate, wiping his hand off with a cloth before looking up at Vulpes. “Sit down.” He does, back straight and stiff. Lightning strikes somewhere nearby once more, barely audible over the rain.

“What would your NCR say, if they learned you were sharing food with a Legionnaire?”

“I’m not allied with the NCR.” He says simply, as he stabs a hunk of meat with his knife and eats it.

“Really? You work very closely with them, for someone who isn't allied.”

“It’s called strategy.”

“Do tell.”

“They control the Dam. It’d be stupid to make enemies with the people keeping the power on.”

“Electricity is an unnecessary vice.”

“How have you not all died from waterborne illnesses yet?”

“What?”

“Or radiation poisoning. I know the Colorado’s relatively clean but the other rivers aren’t, without purification-- which needs electricity to run the pumps-- the water has microbial diseases and trace radiation.” He looks-- genuinely confused, upset even.

“We boil it.”

“That kills most microbes. Filtering and boiling doesn’t make it entirely safe.”

“The weak and sickly will filter themselves out.”

“Do you execute someone whenever they get a cold?” He takes a fruit on his knife. “Have some. It’s okay for pre-War stuff, next time I’ll use basil.” He does, suspicious, hesitant, taking the cube of meat. It’s better than the pemmican and bland meat he normally eats when away from the camps.

“We do not. Execute those with minor illnesses.” He says, taking the meat.

“Just crucifixion, then?”

“No.” He levels the courier with a glare that’s mostly lost through the goggles.

“That’s new.”

“Crucifixion is a punishment for severe crimes.” He sneers. “How do you plan on treating your sick? You should know how quickly disease can destroy a settlement.”

“Basic medical care.” He says flatly, like it’s obvious. Vulpes makes a motion for him to elaborate. “If people can get medical treatment early, before something’s a huge issue, we can cut epidemics off before they start. Obviously we’d still isolate the sick, but it’s called preventative care for a reason.”

“Oh, so you’re a doctor as well as a courier?”

“I’m a lot of things, but I’m a doctor first.”

“It’s good to know how easily we’ll conquer the Mojave, with a _doctor_ in charge.”

“You’ve got a warlord in charge of the Legion and he can’t manage to control a dam.” Vulpes bristles at that. Definitely not from the thunder that rattles the plates.

“He’s conquered 86 tribes and created an empire.”

“He can’t conquer a dam.” He seems tired. As if arguing is an exhausting task. Vulpes assumes it would be, for someone so soft. He leans over, pulling his pack close and pulling out a bottle full of pills. Vulpes narrows his eyes as the man takes a few, noting the different sizes and how easily he drinks them down, before putting the bottle back.

“I didn’t take you for a chem addict.”

“I’m not. Those are prescription for treating medical stuff.” There’s a little more light in his eyes now. Vulpes doesn’t believe him.

“The warlord of the Mojave is a sickly boy in need of chems.” He’s going to find the cracks in the courier’s hide.

“I’m not in charge yet, House still has the Strip, and you know there’s a difference between chems and medicine.” Those eyes are bright again, that intense gaze locking onto him. “After all, that’d make Caesar a sickly old man in need of chems.” There’s a gap toothed smile on his face. In another situation it would be a teasing expression. In another world, where they weren’t enemies. Thunder rattles the window once more. Vulpes glares at him. He doesn’t have an actual retort.

“So you are a sickly boy, then.”

“Sometimes.” This aggravating little man.

“When you’re warlord, how will you keep the degenerate masses in line? With open arms and anarchy?” The courier raises an eyebrow. “Surely you can’t think you’ll be able to reason with these people. They’re animals living in their own filth, and animals need a strong hand and a strong whip.”

“That’s not how long-term control works. A society based on fear is going to collapse, because at some point people won’t be afraid.”

“So how would you lead? If fear is no true tactic?” It’s mocking, his voice going upward in a mimicry of the courier’s.

“Most conflicts come from a lack of basic needs. Providing food, water, shelter, medical care, and time to rest, makes resource wars nonexistent. Killing those opposed to you just makes it easier to get rid of anyone you want.” He says, like acting out of empathy and care is the simplest thing.

“It sounds soft. Your territory would be a prime target for raiders.” The gaze levelled on him is nothing short of deadly. There’s a drive in him, that’s willing to be the one at the front of the army, never leading from behind. His hands are filthy and calloused, scars line his fingers from scratches and cuts. No one can look at him and dismiss this man as a stranger to hard labor.

“Raiders are desperate people pushed into cruelty. They will be cared for, the same as my people.”

“And what of the Legion? What mercy would you extend to us?” A toothed smirk, he’s laid out a snare to trap this child, because that’s what he is, a child pretending to be a warlord--

“Don’t think kindness is the same as submission. Raiders will be cared for, but there are consequences for causing harm.” That stare is hard grey steel, he sees the same when he looks upon the mighty Caesar, delivering what he’s learned. “The Legion and the Republic may enter the Mojave, but they cannot live there. No banners, no markings, both of you would shed your skins and be civilians. Just like my citizens.” There’s a clever brain in there somewhere.

“An easy way for spies to move.”

“As if it’s hard now? I can put on a uniform and be mistaken for someone else. If anything I think it’d be harder without you two, you’d both have to travel a good way to reach each other.” He has a point. How many times has he gotten into places he shouldn’t, Vulpes then wonders.

“And how exactly do you think you’ll get there?”

“Removing House gives me control of the Strip. I can uproot some NCR influence beforehand, but I’ll control the dam myself.”

“You shouldn’t give out your goals so easily.” _Especially not to the leader of the frumentarii--_

“It’s not a secret. And your spies are good, you’d probably get the gist of my planning anyway.” Vulpes resolutely does not feel a swell of pride in his enemy’s admission of the frumentarii’s skill.

“So since you’re so willing to share your ideas, why don’t you explain to me how you’re going to deal with Lanius?” The grin on his face is cruel.

“Why do you follow the man who conquered your tribe and destroyed your culture?”

“We were savages and given purpose by the Legion. Our culture was barbaric, and needed to be destroyed. We are better now, as part of the Legion.”

He hums a note, taking his cloth and wiping the pan off. After a moment he speaks again, “do you really think that? In your bones, do you think that you’re better now?” Those eyes are locked on his, somehow he sees under the opaque goggles, through the shadows of his helmet. There’s a pull, an urge to really think about his question. He knows he’s laid awake trying to remember fragments of forgotten practices, only to throw those memories aside, dismiss those moments as weakness.

“Yes.” No. The courier looks like he heard the unspoken answer. He nods. Goes back to cleaning the pan. “What, don’t tell me you feel sorry for these tribes.”

“My tribe was crushed as well. But it was crushed by a different tribe. Our people were captured and enslaved. Then the Legion crushed and enslaved them.” He says it lightly, like it’s on the same level as the weather. He folds the pan-- Vulpes can see it’s light, aluminium probably, with a folding handle-- and tucks it into his pack. Wipes off his hands. Tosses the cloth into the cracked sink.

“So you know the only true glory in that life is to be taken in by Caesar--”

“I know ripping someone’s heritage from them leaves an ache in their bones. You can’t ever fill a hole in completely.” This time his words are somber, soft. Then that gaze looks up to Vulpes again. “The Legion creates holes, and stuffs those holes full of old cloth and sawdust to fix them. The NCR is the same. They’re hulking things that survive off of crushing people. They’re both falling apart.”

“How will you keep your desert from falling apart?”

“It’s not a guarantee. But I can make it strong, strong enough to survive after I’m gone. When Caesar dies the Legion will collapse. Lanius isn’t a leader. He’s a hammer. You can’t rule with just a hammer.” Vulpes nods. He’s had to plan for the inevitable, when Caesar’s illness takes him and Lanius takes the Legion. He knows the Legate will have no use for spies. He knows the Legate will have no use for him. He knows what happens to tools without a use.

“You’re observant.”

“It’s my job.” He stands as the rain begins to ease, washing out the cloth he used and setting it to dry.

“What will you do about us, since we’re such a blight on the world?”

“Same thing I do to roaches.”

“Hug them?” The courier turns slightly, staring with those unsettling eyes again.

“Put my foot on its back and stomp.”

“Here I thought you were so gentle and nonviolent.”

“You’re a shitty spy if you got to that conclusion.”

“How else would I explain so many people inexplicably left alive? So many conflicts you so sweetly defuse?” His words drip saccharine venom.

“There’s been enough bloodshed to water the desert for a decade. Fighting and death will just weaken us more.” He sits again, putting the jars in his bag. “And it’s better for people to know you’ll reason with them.”

“How sentimental.”

“Don’t mistake my nonviolence for weakness.” It’s not angry. It’s a blunt statement, not even a request but a demand. An order.

“So what should I take it for?”

“You laud Caesar for choosing the right tool for a situation. I do the same.”

“Diplomacy fails.”

“I have a knife.” Corpses of MIA patrols, left with precise wounds from a blade, or impact sites from explosives. He smiles slightly.

“And even while causing destruction, you’re still telling others to act peacefully.”

“Is it really that big a contradiction? Your job is to observe. You still kill. It’s not the first choice, for both of us.” There it is again, attempts to draw comparisons between them both. As if they’re anything alike.

“We are nothing alike.”

“I think we’re more alike than you think.” He looks up at the window, where the sky is still dark. “What are you going to do, when Lanius takes control?”

“I will serve him the same as I serve Caesar.”

“We both know he won’t need the frumentarii.”

“Fine. Most likely I will be killed or sent somewhere I can’t bother the Legate. I’m not sure why it’s any of your concern.”

“My job is to cause the least amount of harm. You’re a person.”

“Your sentimentality won’t help against us.”

“It’s empathy, asshole.” He looks back now, that light in his eyes burning bright.

“If you insist on that term, all right.” He stands up, looking down at the man. “You are already known to Caesar. It seems we will have to watch you more closely.”

“Good. Tell him to stop underestimating me.” It’s not the arrogance of a boy thinking he’s a man. Vulpes isn’t so foolish as to see this man uniting the Mojave as such.

“Oh don’t worry. You did well, spreading news of Nipton. It’s only fair I do the same. Caesar deserves to know the courier he’s extended amnesty to isn’t to be dismissed.”

“You don’t actually know my name, do you.” He says. Vulpes must give away how unexpected that response is, because the courier just sighs and continues, “Marshal. My name is Marshal.”

“All right, Marshal. I will inform Caesar of your actions.” It’s almost a sneer, that comes to his mouth. “I look forward to seeing what you do next.” He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply, heading back down the hall, but pauses at the door, glancing back. “And thank you for the meal.”

He steps into the darkness, away from the lantern light and the perpetually unpredictable courier. If anything, this conversation will help him begin predicting the warlord.

He doesn’t acknowledge the thoughts scratching at the back of his skull, of if the courier-- if _Marshal_ \-- was right.


End file.
